


The Urge For Going

by honeybun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Credence as a traveller, Credence is a Mama's boy, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun
Summary: Credence spends much of his childhood moving from place to place, listening to his mother's singing, packing their shared suitcase, finding somewhere new. She tells him that life isn't worth living unless it's in constant motion, always changing, always chaotic and free.Credence's time with Mary Lou proves this, his entrapment at the church suffocating and terrifying. The flighty bird in his chest constantly beating it's wings, attempting to fly again.It is Mr. Graves who makes Credence want to stay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> It's been a long time, I'm sorry~ I've been finishing up my uni work so I've been super busy, I hope you can all forgive me! The last chapter of In Sickness and In Health will be up soon enough, I have no idea why I'm slacking so much on it lol xox
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @ weepingstar <3

The coast of Italy, rivers of France, boats, hostels and small apartments above restaurants, Credence and his Mama had travelled ever since the day he was born. Credence had vivid memories of her suitcase, cherry red and scratched but reliable all the same, remembered how his toy lion and his favourite scarf were always the first things to be packed into it. 

Credence had grown up learning to allow languages to wash over him, to appreciate the lull of German and the trill of Italian, the quick utterance of French and the music of Spanish, he was glad of this when it came to drowning out the noise of New York city in his teenage years. 

His mother had been kind, most of all, and the best singer he’d ever heard, could ever dream of. She would sing in bars and pubs and restaurants for pennies. Credence sat on a step listening, watching other children play until his eyelids drooped and he tugged his Mama’s sleeve to go home. 

Mary Lou had told him at six years old that he would forget his Mama, that he would learn not to be sad, to be quiet and good and not cry and be so _moody_. To be grateful and obedient and recite his prayers properly and stop asking for Mama. 

They’d never stayed anywhere for much longer than a few months, Mama would tell him when it was time and he would follow. He could see it coming, her nose twitching in the breeze or the void enthusiasm in her voice when she sung. When he woke up his scarf and lion would be resting in the red suitcase, his Mama absent from the space beside him. 

“Time to go, bunny. Hop hop!” Credence usually did not feel like hopping when he’d just woken up, but his Mama always said that a new place is a new adventure, new friends to make and jobs to do and places to see. She would ask him if he knew there was a floating city where people travelled around on boats, or dark forests with fairytale castles where princes and princesses lived, or great cities which glittered at night and played music until the morning. 

 

It was the great glittering lights that Credence and Mama found in New York. Mama would sing for hundreds of people there she said, Credence could go to school for a while if he liked, and then they’d move on to other places, somewhere warm and near the sea. Unfortunately, New York did not have such things planned for the two of them. Mama’s singing had attracted many people, like she said it would, but the unattended child she brought to her performances caused a stir - oh, just my little brother, oh he’s no trouble, such a darling, just wants to see me sing! His Daddy is just at home - yes he says it’s fine I sing here- 

It was always Mama who had the urge for going, never Credence, he always followed, never led. But when people started to frown and ask him questions he very much had the urge, the urge to run down the street and across the bridge all the way to their safe little room they rented. He does run, into the night and with strange men following after him, his mother frantically calling after him.

 

He hides in a park for the night, cold and shivering and scared, no Mama to hold him tight and no blanket or lion. He goes back to the bar when he thinks it might be safe, but Mama isn’t there. When he finally returns home it’s to two policemen who take him with them to an imposing building. Credence feels his urge for going rise up again as a piece of paper in front of him is stamped WARD OF STATE and he’s given scratchy clothes to wear.  The urge is near constant after a few days on an unfamiliar bed in a plain white room, a strict lady called ‘Matron’ bosses him and a few other children around. He cries for his Mama and screams and throws little tantrums but they’re barely taken notice of. One day he doesn’t scream, just tugs on Matron’s sleeve and asks her quietly when his Mama is coming to get him, the woman purses her lips and she tells him sternly that his mother wasn’t fit to look after him, and he’d best just forget all he knew about her.

Mary Lou had taken him and received a rare smile from the Matron who told Credence she was a very good woman to take him on, a very good woman indeed. Credence soon found out she was nothing of the sort of course. At the Second Salem Church the children made fun of his funny voice and whispered that he was a filthy gypsy, his mother an unmarried whore. Credence had stopped talking to hide his funny voice, and had stopped telling stories of the fairytale castles and the floating city and he’d stopped talking about Mama. The urge for going was always there but stamped on frequently. Because where would he go? 

When Credence had let his need to leave guide him, Mary Lou had found him within hours of running away, all seven attempts, and he’d been caned in front of the whole congregation. The urge for going had changed from a suggestive breeze in the right direction to a chaotic and panicked craving for an escape, leading Credence to unplanned break outs, silly decisions. Leading Credence back to the church, not back home. 

 

Credence and his Mama used to lay on top of a canal boat, or out on a balcony above a quiet street, or even in fields when it was warmer and they had nowhere to stay, and look out at the sky. 

“Isn’t it wonderful, Credence?” Little Credence nods, “Why have a silly house and a dull job in a boring town if you could have this?” Mama had stretched out her arms to try and encompass the whole sky, her delicate fingertips waving and tickling the stars. Little Credence didn’t know, couldn’t really imagine what a silly house or a dull job entailed, could imagine boring towns aplenty as he’d stayed in them. 

“That’s why we’re travellers, bunny… No one to answer to, we can hang our hat anywhere and call it home.” Credence didn’t particularly understand what Mama meant, because she didn’t often wear hats, they made a strange imprint in her black curls when she did, so he’d never seen her hang a hat anywhere.

“You don’t like your beret, Mama…” She’d laughed so loud he hadn’t been able to list the many failed headwear attempts he could recall. 

“Not like that, silly.” Mama had cuddled him close then, still giggling from time to time and stroking his hair back from his face.

“I don’t have to answer to anyone, Mama?” Credence bit at his lip, knew his mother didn’t particularly like him bringing up certain subjects. 

“No, bunny, no one.” Apart from Mama, was unsaid. 

“So I don’t have to answer when people ask where my Daddy is?” Mama twitched her nose at this, her eyes narrowed a little. 

“No.”

“Would you answer if _I_ asked you?” Credence said quietly, twisting the hem of his sleeve in his fingers. 

“Bunny, I’ve told you before,” Mama sighed and turned her face towards him, “We’re better off without him…” Mama looked at Credence for another few seconds and went to bring his head to her chest, “We just need each other, no one else. Don’t we?” The tone of her voice, the slight helplessness panics Credence. 

“ _Yes Mama!_ Just us! I don’t- I wouldn’t-” Credence struggles a little with his words, floundering, his usually stoic mother a little too unsure for his liking, “We don’t need anyone else. I don’t _want_ anyone else, Mama.” 

Mama smiles easily then, suddenly herself once more, she kisses Credence’s brow and whispers, “That’s right, Credence,” sighs against his soft hair, “Please don’t ask again… Alright?” 

Credence never does, and so, years later, when he finds himself in the hands of New York's child protection, he has no answer, not even a lie, to tell the people who ask where his father is, who he was, why he left his mother. Not a word in her defence, he’d fibbed at first and pretended she was his sister, like they did sometimes, but that had only irritated the police and the suited lady from the orphanage.

Later still, Credence comes to realise, through Mary Lou’s preaching on sin, through children’s cruel words in the church yard, why people had been so concerned with Credence’s young, unmarried mother, with his lack of schooling and his strange habits and accent. He comes to realise his mother was right, that people would look to judge you on anything just to distract from their own faults. Credence had once asked if he could go to church like the other children, she’d told him that wouldn’t help, it wouldn’t make anyone like them more or hate them less. She had said she wouldn’t socialise with people who went to church on a Sunday to act holier than thou and then treat people terribly for the rest of the week. Credence often thought this when he was being screeched at by Mary Lou, or sneered at by one of the other adults at the Second Salem Church. His prayers and his obedience did not make it easier and it did not make them like him any more. 

Time drags by and as soon as Credence’s memories start to fade, and his spirits dim even more, Mr. Graves appears. It’s not an acquaintance that strikes Credence as important at first, he was never one for friends truly, too quiet now, too shy, but Mr. Graves surprises him. 

 

Credence had been very wary of Mr. Graves at first, he emitted the same aura as the people who took him away from Mama the first time. Fingers covered in paper dust, long nights with too much coffee, ink blotted against his sleeve and never properly cleaned. When Mr. Graves had tipped his head and crossed himself upon entering the church he had further suspicions. However, the third time he spoke to Credence, one late afternoon in November, he surprised him. It was dark already and despite the lights of New York, in their shabby part of town you could just about see the stars. 

“As long as you have somewhere to hang your hat, and the stars, then what else could matter, hmm?” Graves had gestured up at the sky, other hand deep in his pocket. 

“What?” Credence had stopped walking along the cobbled street, looked to Mr. Graves suddenly so vulnerable in that moment, almost at risk of crying. 

“As long as you, um,” Graves gestured again, vague now, “Have somewhere to call a home, and a view of the stars, well,” Graves scratches at his head a little, embarrassed, “What else matters?” 

Credence blinks several times to clear the tears that had surprised him so suddenly, “Yes… That’s right.” Credence smiles again, and carries on walking with Mr. Graves. 

After a few more paces passed in silence, “You don’t wear a hat…” Credence grins at his shoes, his stomach lurching a little at his cheek. 

“No, no,” Graves huffs a laugh, “It musses my perfect hair, Credence.” Graves watches a little in awe at Credence’s trill of a laugh which bubbles down to little surprised hiccups. From that day on Credence makes a special space in his heart for Mr. Graves, thinks Mama won’t mind a man that just wants the stars and someplace to hang his nonexistent hat.

 

Apart from that one example, it was not the similarities in Graves and his Mama that he saw, it was the differences. Mama had always told him that you could never belong to anyone, and no one to you, but Mr. Graves’ hand on his arm, or the back of his neck made Credence feel differently. Something about how he stood so firm in the wind that his mother would follow, her cheeks pink and her nose in the air like she was sniffing out a new home for them, makes him want to hang back with him. Mr. Graves likes customs and tradition, will chivalrously open doors and pull out seats for a lady, while his mother loathed such treatment. Mr. Graves had been in New York most of his adult life, he tells Credence one day as they’re walking together, Credence’s back bowed from the pain of the belt, while Mama had always said that staying in one place too long was too close to death. Mr. Graves could not sing, Credence discovered when he came to the carol service, but Mama could. 

Credence could never be sure why it was that Mr. Graves had taken a liking to him, had healed him, had whispered that all of the magic his mother had told him about was real. He could never be sure why his healed wounds tingled long after the older man had left Credence, well into the night, a phantom touch. As Credence starts to carefully blow the dust away from his painful and treasured memories, the urge for going returns. Repressed for years, shoved under the carpet, growling and spitting whenever Mary Lou beat him, as another year passed and he still was in the same rickety bed, same rickety church, same rickety life. 

The urge for going scares him like it never used to, it might have gotten him into trouble but it’s never something he’d wished away. He wants to _stay_  now, he wishes he could - he’s finally found someone who won’t make fun of how he rolls his r’s or ask too much about his past, only patiently listen when Credence offers some information. He would like to stay with Mr. Graves. But he _can't_.

The words “ _We don’t belong to anyone, and no one to us, bunny,_ ” echoes around his head, his mother’s voice clearer than it’s been since he was a boy. Credence is reminded of when a gentleman especially sweet on his mother had proposed, said he wanted her, wanted Credence too, she’d smiled and accepted, but left before the sun was up the next day. He’d never understood, saw how she cried in the morning light as they boarded a train to Belgium, because she’d liked him very much. She’d taken a deep breath and dried her tears, and told Credence that people like them couldn’t be trapped, grounded, bound, it just wasn’t in their nature. 

He sees Mr. Graves smiles, feels his broad, warm hand on his neck, on his cuts and on his waist. Remembers every instance of Mr. Graves buying him food, taking him new clothing, which appeared already worn so Mary Lou wouldn’t notice it was new. Remembers how Mr. Graves had suffered through lecture upon lecture of the ungodliness of magic, the need for a purge, just to speak to Credence afterwards. He sees his Mama’s sweet gentleman, sees his own sweet Mr. Graves in his place and he panics. 

 

He never got his scarf or his lion back, never let himself think of where they ended up, especially doesn’t let himself think about where Mama ended up. Credence packs a small little satchel used for transporting the church's flags and leaflets to the other side of the city, he waits until everyone is in bed and then he raids the donation tin as quickly and as quietly as he can. Thoughts buzzing around his head of sin and pain and how he can’t bear to leave Mr. Graves and how he doesn’t know where he’s going and then how he could go _anywhere_. His mother’s voice urging him on in his head, you _must_ go, you _must_ leave. 

Credence stumbles out, takes a night tram to the docks and plans to travel by boat somewhere, anywhere, as far away from his Mr. Graves and all the twisted feelings he brings, the strange hurt in his chest, so unfamiliar to him and unkind in it’s abuse. He sits at the docks with his bag full of stolen coins, a blanket and a change of clothes and he looks out to the horizon, thinks of how his mother used to love to see the end of the world, know there was something else at the end of the horizon. Tears escape as he so desperately wishes he’d been more like her, untamed and free, not scared, not bound to someone, not belonging to someone, not clinging to another. 

 

“A bag full of money and nothing else is a little suspect, Credence.’ Graves’ warm voice murmurs beside him. Credence jumps out of his skin and almost drops everything down a slat in the boards and into the sea. “Why are you going?” Credence feels every drop of hurt in Graves’ voice, lets it burn him like acid. 

“I have to… it’s- I was never meant to…” Credence looks down at his feet, closes his eyes and tries to quiet his mind, stop the tears from coming. He resolutely doesn’t think about how he’d liked how unmovable Graves was, certainly didn’t allow himself to think that perhaps he’d never felt safe moving around so often, never settled, never quite felt right. Does not think that Graves is safe, and makes him feel so, that Graves is stable and secure and all of those words Credence knows Mama would disapprove of. She liked change, chaos, movement, dancing, faster and faster and faster until the two of them inelegantly fell from their feet, Credence sent off to Mary Lou and his mother to God knows where. 

Graves hasn’t said a word still, appears to have been looking very hard at Credence for a while now. Credence bites at his nails. “I would like for you to stay, Credence.” The hand that feeds him reaches down and rests on Credence’s neck - possessive, his Mama would say, _calming_ , Credence corrects her - Credence swallows to rid the lump in his throat. “I want you to stay.” Graves affirms, stroking a thumb up the tense line of Credence’s neck. “ _Stay_ , Credence.” 

Graves gets to his feet and takes up the bag of stolen money, waits a moment until Credence picks himself up, and then takes his hand. “Thank you.” Graves whooshes them away in a whirlwind that Credence has become somewhat used to, he silently returns the money to its rightful place with his wand, letting it stack itself, and then instead of installing Credence back in _his_  rightful place, he draws him to the door and apparates off again. 

 

Graves’ home is not rickety, it does not make him feel caged in or trapped, it is light and spacious and he has a garden where tulips bloom in the Spring, just a month after he begins his stay there. His urge for going doesn’t become stamped down as much as it just disappears. What replaces it is the presence of Graves, the fact that Credence knows what time he will return home, knows what to expect, what not to expect. Graves has never raised a hand to him, and Credence is certain he never will, Graves likes to make decisions for Credence, which doesn’t feel like an act of possession or arrogance, but a burden lifted from his shoulders. 

One day in early April, the sun is out but there’s still a chill in the air, Credence scares himself. For whatever reason he thinks he might go outside, might just go to glimpse the blossom at the corner of the garden, look up at the sky and stretch his arms. The door is locked. What frightens Credence at first is not that the door is locked, but how quickly he accepts this - he thinks oh, how sweet, that Graves had thought to keep him safe, that Graves didn’t want him wandering, and then an shard of ice pierces his heart. _What on Earth would Mama say?_

Credence starts to panic and to fuss, puts down his tea sharply on the kitchen counter, wraps his arms around himself and is appalled at how completely at ease he feels at being kept in. The beating of his heart too much like a flighty bird trying to take flight and failing. He feels his own betrayal sharply, feels nauseous with how vivid the memory of his Mama is in that moment, frowning, disappointed, just like she had when he’d cried on the stairs of their flat in Madrid. She’d grabbed his hand and marched him off, “Credence, please none of this, not now, it’s time to go - say goodbye, bunny! No crying!” Her sing song voice strained and warped over his wailing, _no Mama, stay, no Mama, I hate this, no Mama, please!_

He tries to dredge up the need to leave, the instinct he’d had somewhere inside him all his life but it falls flat. His efforts heavy, slamming back down as soon as he raises them up again. “Credence, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” Graves, appearing mysteriously as always, he should be at work, not here, but he comes to him and worries immediately. Pulling Credence this way and that, removing Credence's thin arms crossed tight against his chest, pressing a palm to his forehead. 

“ _You locked the door!_ ” Credence accuses, squeezing his eyes shut, sure this is how his mother would have done things. 

Graves pauses, “Of course, Credence. I want to know you’re safe while I’m away.” He says it so easily, Credence whimpers. 

“I’m not _yours_ , you know! I-I don’t, I don’t belong to _anyone!_ ” Credence spits it out, feels so lonely once the words are out in the open, has sealed his fate, has ruined it. He can’t help but gasp and let a few tears escape, nervously twine his fingers together as he waits for it all to be over.

“Don’t be ridiculous, _of course_ you do.” Credence’s head jolts up at this, “You’re mine and I’m yours, that’s how it works, Credence.” 

“No… I-“ Credence stumbles, “You don’t-“ Floundering in how simply Graves had put it, how perfectly opposite. 

“You aren’t obliged to do anything, Credence. If that’s stay here with me, then so be it,” Graves purses his lips, flexes his hands and balls them into fists, "but you also don’t need to do everything like your mother would. Alright?” Silence rules after Graves’ question, Credence more in shock that Graves brought her up than at anything else. 

“You don’t know-“ Credence's hand flutters around his mouth, unsure and scared of what might tumble out of it.

“She would want you to be happy, Credence, surely,” Graves clenches his jaw, softens his tone, “Please?” Graves carefully peels Credence’s hand away from his mouth, angles his head to the left and places a chaste kiss on Credence’s lips. Credence seems to collapse inwards like a dilapidated building, held up on nothing, ready to fall, hollow, presses his mouth against Graves’ again, clings to his lapels for support.

“You can’t-“ Credence had begun to hiccup, “ _You can’t leave me_ ,” hiccup, "now, now that,” hiccup, “You’ve said,” hiccup, “Okay?” 

Graves smiles, holds Credence close, “I won’t.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little nervous about posting this (when aren't I tho lol?) because I haven't written in a little while, so please let me know what you think <3 adore you all xox


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